Mummy's Boys
by cursethemoon
Summary: What do you get when you have a teenager who is obsessed with antagonizing the youngest - and a youngest that seems to be fascinated by dead things? - Everything, that's what. Cute oneshots about Holmes' childhood.
1. Sherlock Is Sent Home Again

**A/N: ** Anyway, just a one-shot! Maybe.. I'll add some more little one-shots to make a BIG collection of one-shots. But for now... just a one-shot. At 12:51 am. Anyway.

Enjoy.

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><p><strong><span>Mummy's Boys<span>**

"Mummy, it wasn't _my _fault!" The curly haired boy muttered as his mother entered the kitchen, caressing her head with a trembling hand. _She has been cooking again... that frying pan was not there before... _"Mummy!" Sherlock demanded, curling behind the worktop and following his mother as she maneouvred towards the refridgerator to gather a drink of water.

"Sherlock, darling." His mother turned towards him and leaned forward, inspecting his young eyes, "You _made _Mrs. Rivers cry -"

"I didn't." Sherlock said simply, crossing his arms. _Of course I didn't... her tear ducts are not of my control... _

"Uh - no, young man. _Let _your Mummy finish," She tutted at him, sighing deeply at the vacancy in his expression, "You made Mrs. River cry _again_..."

Again? Well, that was silly of his Mummy. For Mrs. Rivers was the _assistant _teacher. The one he had upset before was Ms. Faulklands - who was just _insufferable_! No wonder why her husband left her. "But Mummy... you can't just _believe _them..." The boy said gravely, wide grey eyes dilating as it attempted to prompt a sympathetic response from his mother. Of course, she did not.

Bugger. Daddy was much better at being persuaded.

"Sherlock - its the _fifth _time we've been asked back to school this _month_! Mummy can't just go there _every time_ you're in trouble!" His mother sighed, exasperated as she tried not to absorb her youngest son's look. The look that always seemed to scream such innocence that it constantly wiggled him out of trouble in his father's grip, "We have jobs, you know sweetheart? _Jobs to do... bills to pay..._grownup stuff!" She tipped his chin up with a finger, looking into his pleading eyes, "Do you understand, darling?"

"It's not my fault that their morales are weak." Sherlock commented simply; his mother's eyes simply widened. How an eight year old boy could even utter such things were out of her bay of mind. Scratching the top of her head she simply opened the fridge, attempting to find something to feed him for it seemed that her cooking ventures today had gone unsuccessfully...

Watching his Mummy, Sherlock decided he was not going to surrender. "You _can't _confiscate them from me, Mummy. They're my toys!" The boy pouted, referring to the discussed punishment in the journey home.

His mother rolled her eyes, "_Sherlock _- they're _chemicals_ - you... you can't say they are toys!"

"I _play_ with them don't I?" Really, sometimes this woman was as bad as the others. Sherlock sighed, "You told me I needed to get toys, remember? And I _did_..."

"Sweetheart, they're in bottles. Why don't you try something like _toy soldiers _or cars?" His mother suggested with a bright, jovial smile, "You know that I bought your brother a new set yesterday..."

The small boy's jaw fell. How silly his Mummy was. Mycroft was easily impressed. He did not get the joy of handling magnesium oxide. Watching his mother wearily wipe sweat off her brow - the boy crossed his arms,

"How was the train journey?"

"It was fine honey - _wait_, how did you know that?" His mother glowered at him for a moment before shaking her head, "Ignore me. _Darling_, can you just pass me the bread - maybe we can just make you a sandwich of sorts..."

"Can I make my _own _sandwich?" A bright innocuous smile plastered on the boy's face.

"Absolutely not."

"_Why _not?" Sherlock's eyes lost its flicker, "Mycroft makes his own."

A chuckle escaped his mother's lips as she began to rush around the kitchen cupboards with a hum, "Mycroft makes sandwiches to _eat _dear. Not to play with..."

"Experiment." The boy rolled his eyes.

"Experiment," His mother corrected, "Sorry. _Now_ ... about your punishment. It's final, okay Sherlock? I _can't _have you making trouble anymore..." She took another inhale as she began to gather dishes, muttering, "... I _hate _to take your little... chemicals away, but if that's the only way to make you learn your lesson..."

They were not _little. _Sherlock drummed his fingers on the table, whistling a bit of Mozart as he glanced around the house. "I made a friend yesterday." He said, watching as his mother whipped excitedly around,

"Is that so, Sherlock? That's - _great_, honey!" She beamed, "How? What? _Tell _me all."

The fact that his mother was so excited forced Sherlock's brow to arch. How odd she was behaving! _She must be on those pills again... bugger, I cannot figure out their exact chemical structure now that she is taking my work away... _

"Well. I dropped a pencil. She gave it to me and introduced herself..."

"Oh - _and_..."

Sherlock blinked, "Well, that's it." Why was she looking so shocked?

"That is it? That's... that's not friendship, Sherlock."

She was being silly again. "Well of _course _it is," Sherlock shook his head with a large whip, black curls waving, "A definition of a friend is someone who gives assistance... and she did." Her name had been Isabelle. She clearly had overly eager parents - parents who were more concerned with pleasing the neighbours than their own family... _one could tell by the the way she writes her name..._

His mother was smiling again. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Mummy," He sighed, "Please - I'll behave from now on. _Please _don't take my chemistry set away."

"You said that the _second _time I was called to school, Sherlock."

"I'll do anything!" He yelled, groaning into the table as he scratched his head brusquely, "Please!"

"Young man, don't shout."

"I'm _not _shouting!" Sherlock argued, "I'm _speaking loudly_..."

Mrs. Holmes chuckled, shaking her head back at him as she prepared his meal with a breathless sigh, "Anything?" She asked, "You'll do anything?"

"Yes." Sherlock brightened up. Oh! How easily tides turn! He flexed his fingers.

"Then be nice to your brother," She smiled softly at him, "He's always looked out for you."

"I'm nice to Mycroft." Sherlock said, curving his lips unsure why his mother was asking for something so - _mere._

"You are _not_!" She gasped, staring back at him with a rueful smile on her lips, "Yesterday, you told him that he was a product of an _anatomical catastrophe_!"

"_By _product." Sherlock corrected, still unsure why his Mummy was being so harsh, "I told him that he was a _by product _of anatomical catastrophe."

"That's not nice."

"He told me I was strange!"

"You were reading your father's copies of _Sigmund Freud's _works," His mother murmured as she glanced back at him, "Don't you think that, that deserved a little criticism?"

Sherlock could recall the memory. He had been furious. Mycroft had been such an imbecile. How they shared blood, he did not know. "I believed I should have recieved praise," He cried, "Most boys my age are reading that _godawful _series!"

"Which one?"

"Narnia." Sherlock shuddered, "Everyone in my class is obsessed."

"Oh, I loved that series when I was younger_!" Typical.. his Mummy of course would love it! For Mummy likes everything Mycroft likes_! "You should read it. Perhaps it should change your mind."

"I have." In a weekend. Sherlock had been bored. Mycroft's room had been open. "It was the dullest thing I had ever read in my life."

There was another laugh. Sherlock wondered if all Mummies laughed as much as his did. He did not really like the idea of being laughed at. He was only eight - but still he did not understand the social practices all the other children are perfectly aware of.

"You did not go into Mycroft's room to read them did you?"

"Of course I did," The boy shrugged seeing no reason to lie, "He doesn't mind."

"Yes he does. He gets _furious_!"

"Just because I make a mark on the carpet!" Sherlock lashed out, shaking his head, "_Goodness. _He says I'm strange Mummy! But I put _one _book in the wrong, alphabetical or numeric order...and suddenly I'm the antichrist!"

"Sherlock!"

"_Sorry_." Sherlock apologized grimly knowing his Mummy didn't like references to anything grave/death/_badness _related. "But when Mycroft does something wrong... you never punish him."

"Of _course _I do, darling... he just never makes his teachers cry."

No. All the teachers _loved _Mycroft. Sherlock had tried to see why - if Mycroft sprayed things around them to make them so _amorous_... but apparently sniffing one's teachers was considered rather inappropriate in school. Sherlock did not see _how._

He had read through the school's list of conducts millions of times and it was definitely not listed there.

"On a good note. You did very well in your assessment dear," His mother gushed, "Daddy and I are very proud."

Sherlock forced a grin. _An assessment - is she referring to that... oh god! I thought that had been a questionnaire... _

"When is Daddy coming home?"

"Hopefully at the end of this week."

That meant she's not sure. Sherlock had learnt to read his mother's tone over the past few months. Thoughtful and with wandering thoughts, the boy blinked as he realized something... _oh...did I finish up yesterday's - _

"Mummy, can I go upstairs now?"

"Sherlock, you haven't eaten."

"But I have to do something quickly..."

"_No _spying on the neighbours again, okay?" His mother advised, "And... okay. Just come back down quickly... I want to _see _you eat this. Look at you... you're becoming a _skeleton_!"

Sherlock wrinkled his nose. He hoped she was not serious. Because...that was just a dumb jest at her part for one couldn't possibly be eroded back into a skeleton from a lack of food. "Okay."

"And no antagonizing your brother..."

"He's not here!"

"He doesn't _have _to be."

"Fine." Sherlock began to make his way towards the door.

Mrs. Holmes found herself grinning as she finished the sandwich, hearing his footsteps thump upstairs. Humming a tune as she prepared the table, the woman glanced at the clock. She was pouring a generous amount of orange juice in a glass when she heard a _large _thump upstairs.

"_Sherlock_!" She shouted, eyes narrowed in confusion, "Darling? _Is _everything alright up there?"

Silence. And then a,

"Yes, Mummy!"

He was _squeaking._ A mother's instinct kicking her, the woman made her way upstairs, wiping her brow for what seemed to be the umpteenth time in the hour. He squeaked when he lied. Goodness. She just hoped it was not the wall _again._

They may as well have the constructor live in their house at this rate.


	2. Tea Time with Sherry & Mycie

**A/N: **What is with me + Sherlock muse and _late nights_? I decided I am going to turn this into a few one-shots since I really wanted to see young Mycroft + Sherlock Holmes together. Cutie pies, they are.

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><p><strong><span>Tea Time with Sherry &amp; Mycie<span>**

"Oh, your two boys are just _adorable_."

"Mine?" Violet Holmes asked, lowering her teacup and narrowing her eyes at Melynda curiously.

There was a brief silence before Cassandra - who sat beside her - chuckled stiffly,

"Actually, Violet dear. I believe she is talking about _my _two boys..." A small, agonizing smile formed on the brunette's face as she blushed heavily. Melynda glanced at Violet ruefully,

"_Although _Vi, I must say your two boys are - " Her attempt was silenced however by Violet's hand happily lifting to stop her,

"_No _need." Violet smiled softly, "I know what my boys are like... they're..." what would be the word -

_Different._

"They are... quite quirky," a small breath escaped Cassandra as she forced a smile, "But they are very good at school... I hear. You and Sig must be proud..."

Violet smiled fondly, "Who told you that? Dear little Rupert?" Rupert of course who was in Sherlock's class.

"Yes. Well...Rupert tends to not speak very often now..."

"Oh, why is that?" Melynda asked curiously before an innocent silence ensued. She blinked a little awkwardly - clearly not catching the joke as the two other women stared at each other vacantly.

Glancing mutely at the untouched cakes, Violet smoothed out her skirt,

"There was a little accident..."

"Involving... little Sherlock..." Cassandra continued, grinning weakly.

"Let's just say... Rupert's jaw is still in recovery," Violet breathed, wiping sweat off her brow as she glanced at the clock that hung on the wall across. Melynda began to laugh humourlessly as Cassandra seemed to pale.

"Anyway... it was nice seeing you girls. Give my love to lovely little Rupert yes?" Mrs. Holmes stood up with a forced beam of the face, "I wish you a safe trip home."

The two women left - both bidding her a sweet farewell. Violet Holmes pressed her back against the door and breathed outwardly - goodness.

As if the day could not get any longer - her boys were going to be on their way home in fifteen minutes.

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><p>"Afternoon, love."<p>

Sherlock rolled his eyes as his mother gave them the usual, _returning home _routine of kisses. Hugs. And small, useless questions that he really did not have the saliva to answer. "Hullo, Mummy." The eight year old sighed deeply, "_Again. _I saw you this morning have you forgotten?"

A chuckle resonated from a tall, dark haired Mycroft Holmes who was untangling his scarf. Sherlock glared up at him, feeling his chest compress inside. "What's so _funny _brother?" Sherlock hissed, "_Saw_ your reflection in my eyes?"

The older boy's face fell. Mrs. Holmes took that as her cue to chuckle,

"Boys. No arguing... you've only just got home!" She gushed, "Now tell me - how was school?"

"Great." Mycroft nodded, giving his mother a small customary kiss on the cheek, "I did some cricket. I finished my English Literature project... great."

Always the optimistic one. Glancing down at the curly haired boy, the woman took an inhale deciding that the optimism was not going to rub off on her youngest,

"And yours?" She asked with a large smile.

The grey eyed boy stared up at her - eyes blank. "Dull."

Of course. Mycroft posed a deep, throaty laugh giving the small boy a shake of the hair. Sherlock scowled, hands flailing - as if his brother's very fingertips were diseased,

"Don't tease your brother." She sighed at Mycroft.

Mycroft shrugged, "I did not tease him. I was giving him an affectionate gesture."

His mother simply pressed her lips together, rolling her eyes at her son's smirk. "Don't Mycroft," She sighed, "He looks unhappy already." She looked back to check on her youngest but he was gone.

Sherlock was already in the kitchen. "Dear!" She crooned, "There is some food in the oven!"

"Not hungry!" came the reply.

"Make sure your brother eats." Mrs. Holmes glanced at her oldest son firmly, giving the boy a nod, "I have to go and visit your Aunt Miranda. I shall be home quite soon. _Make _sure he eats, okay?" She pressed knowing how important it was for her youngest to eat. How she worried about him for she had a funny feeling he did not each his lunch as he tells her every time he comes home!

"Fine, mother." Mycroft replied dryly. The woman noted the playfulness in his reply and decided to diminish it instantly,

"_No _force feeding."

The fifteen year old smirked, poking out his tongue ruefully,

"You are really no fun, sometimes Mummy."

"Mycie!"

"Fine!"

* * *

><p>"Sherryyyy," The fifteen year old crowed, "<em>Eat <em>your damn pie."

"Mummy is going to get mad at you. _She _doesn't like it when you cuss." Sherlock warned, glancing at the dish in front of him with a vacant look. He looked up at his brother who had just finished eating his own dinner and was now engrossed in today's copy of _The Financial Times_,

"Well, Mummy's not here."

"So _I _don't need to eat then." Sherlock said coolly, glancing down at the objects he had been inspecting on the table. On the table were three round rocks. He mused at them.

It took only a few moments for him to notice that his older brother was observing his every move through the gap in the newspaper.

"Stop it." Sherlock snapped, "Mycroft... stop it."

"Stop what?" The boy grumbled; Sherlock could imagine the boy beaming behind the piece of paper. He was sickened by it.

"_Watching _me."

The watching did not stop. Infuriated, Sherlock leaned forward and snatched the paper. His brother recoiled instantly,

"What are _you _doing you _loony_?" The boy rasped, identical grey eyes flashing, "Give that back."

"No!" The curly haired boy stated with a large grin. It only occured to him of course that he had left his own, precious belongings unprotected.

Mycroft grabbed a rock.

"No!" Sherlock repeated, aghast, "_Put _it back Mycroft! Put it back! Don't touch it!"

"What do you - AH!" The fifteen year old dropped the rock, glancing at his throbbing fingers with wide, stunned eyes. Sherlock stumbled off his chair. For a normal brother's reaction, Sherlock should be there - inspecting his brother's afflictions. But he _had _warned him.

So, it was not his fault.

"_What _the heck did you _do _to that ROCK!" Mycroft screeched, "That _burnt _my fingers!"

"Good." Sherlock shrugged, nonchalant, "I told you not to touch it."

"_God_. You're insane!"

"Am not!" Sherlock gasped, fury rising through his tiny teeth, "_Am_ not! It is _you!_"

"_You _are! Sherlock the _Barmy_!" Mycroft gritted his teeth, a nauseating smirk on his face as his small brother's grey eye twitched - _a_ _sign of him getting riled up... _"BARMY. BARMY! BARMY!"

"STOP IT MYCROFT!" The eight year old shrieked, face beginning to turn a worrying shade of purple.

"-BARMY! BARMY!"

"_MYCROFT_!" Sherlock's voice reached a falsetto as his brother began to prance around the room, chanting.

With a loud yell, Sherlock _lunged _at the table.

There was silence as a dish hit the floor.

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><p>Miranda lived a corner away.<p>

Violet came home and found herself inflated by the small, polite chat she had with her friend. Of course as she entered and there was silence - she _knew _something had happened.

"Boys!" She had screamed, "_Boys_? Are you -"

And then she entered the kitchen.

Her eyes examined her sons and softly and calmly - as her doctor said - she exhaled. A small, _peaceful _smile formed on her lips as she eyed her always responsible eldest. He stood there in the middle of the room - left eye writhing,

"Mycroft..." She said, leaning forwards, eyes gleaming,

"Yes, Mum."

"_Please _explain to me why you are covered in Sherlock's dinner."

The fifteen year old seemed to tremble. Violet reared her head towards her youngest who seemed to be staring at - _rocks_? _Please don't ask... remember don't ask... _

"Anything to say, dear?" She asked the young boy innocently who glanced up from his observations - looking as if nothing wrong had happened.

He shrugged simply, thin pale lips pressing in habit,

"I told him I wasn't hungry." Sherlock commented, placing his eyes back at the rocks with keen eyes.


	3. Brother or are you?

**a.n** - many thanks for the response as such! Just a cute one here. Sort of fluffybrotherstuff. But the type of fluffybrother that... well these two un-fluffy brothers can have. Enjoy ;)

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><p><strong><span>Brother... or are you?<span>**

Mycroft Holmes had one goal in life and that was to be exactly like his father.

As a young boy he had watched with deep adoration as his father conversed on political and financial topics - _charmed _their house guests - _captured _the heart of everyone who met him. His mother exuded a similar aura - but of course, as a boy, it was his father he aspired to be. And to be truthful, he had been given the first step of this goal from his conception.

Out of the two of them - it was Mycroft who had taken after his father's looks.

He had deep, blue eyes (which constantly wriggled him out of trouble for they always seemed so honest) and his father's dark locks - a signature of the Holmes' bloodline it would seem. For a young man, he almost duplicated his father in looks and in the way he approached things - always so rationally and with logic.

There was no doubt that Mycroft Holmes was _a Holmes. _Sherlock... well, in Mycroft's mind - he must have taken after some lost relative in his mother's genetic line for he looked nothing like _anyone. _

When Sherlock had been born, Mycroft (who would never admit to this in his life) had fawned over the baby like an obedient older brother _should. _They had been shocked at how quickly it was that Mycroft took the idea of a sibling. But then, Sherlock began to display odd behaviour - idiosyncrasies babies of his age should not be doing yet. And for a whole year, the young boy convinced himself that Sherlock was not _his brother._

He was a changeling! _An alien_! Of course, now he had lost that idea.

Until of course, when Sherlock came up to him one Saturday morning and said very effortlessly,

"Do you think I'm adopted?"

Mycroft (who had been eating quite comfortably at the time) almost choked on his cornflakes.

"Good morning to you too, Mr. Brightside." He chuckled. He then eyed the young, curly haired boy and blinked as he realized that he was serious.

"Why do you ask?" He drawled innocently, "Saw an extra hoard of _chromosomes _in your blood or something?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes, clearly dismayed by his brother's lack of scientific knowledge. Mycroft shrugged, progressing on to ignore the boy until Sherlock seemed to _scowl. _

"I'm _serious _Mycroft." The eight year old sighed.

For a few moments, a little voice told Mycroft to humour the boy and say _yes. _I do believe that you are not of our _blood. _Knowingly of course, he approached it the correct way and shook his head,

"Sod off, Sherlock." He said with a wink, "Of course you're not adopted."

Spoon scooping another fill of yellow cornflakes, Mycroft rolled his eyes as he realized that his brother still seemed to be pondering the subject. Instead of pressing his conclusion further though, he went with -

"Why _do _you ask then, brother?" He asked, taking a mouthful and chewing in rhythm.

Sherlock seemed to be hesitant as he spoke. Mycroft noted the slight vulnerability he conveyed - something he never saw _Mr Stoney Eyes _ever display,

"I feel like I don't belong in this family."

The older boy's face grew a slight crease. He swallowed his food and prompted a small chuckle, "You must be _joking_. Sherlock." He rolled his eyes, "Yes. You're a little odd. But this whole _family's _a bit of a windmill of insanity..." Mycroft knew this very well - after all their parents were nowhere near the bay of normality the rest of the world seemed to dwell in.

Instead of saying how one's day has gone, his father would rattle on about political bloodshed on the table while his mother would sing _Christmas Carols _in the middle of April as she shared the food around.

"Yes. But I don't _look _like any of you."

"Genetics are unpredictable." Mycroft argued back softly.

"Mummy treats me differently," Sherlock seemed to sigh - Mycroft noted that this must be where the problem lies - "It _must _be because she has adopted me and she feels like that... Jacob Roswell is adopted and he _complains _about that all the time..."

"It's because you're a child, Sherlock. She can't treat you like she treats me."

"But I don't want to be _treated _like a child." Sherlock scowled deeply, scratching his head. His older brother had to hide a smile at his old-fashioned striped pyjamas (the one Nana had got him for Christmas) - "And _you _still qualify as a minor! You're not _that _old."

"True, I give you that." Mycroft toasted with his juice cup, "But _come on_. Do you really think you're adopted?"

The small boy nodded firmly. The fifteen year old sighed. _Being stubborn... it definitely runs in the family_, "How about this. Look at _us_. We're not that different."

Sherlock snorted. "_Right_, Mycroft." The maturity of the eight year old seemed to crumble as the young boy poked his tongue out, "We are."

"Fine. Name _one _difference." The fifteen year old chewed his bottom lip, convinced he was to win this argument, "And nothing about looks. We are _all _pretty sure you got your looks from _Sergio Armand_ - Mummy's old lover from Italy."

Mycroft smirked widely as Sherlock's eyes seemed to darken,

"That's _still _not funny."

"Yes it is," The boy choked, "That's why it's ironic that you hate pasta so much."

"..._Christ_, I hate you." Sherlock growled.

"Hate you too." Mycroft winked, "See. That's a similarity."

"That doesn't count." Sherlock sighed, scratching his hair thoughtfully as a brightness entered normally dull eyes, "_You _like order and... crazy, _lunatic _stuff with neatness... and I'm _chaotic_."

How to argue with that? "Mummy is organized chaos. Could have got it from her."

"I thought we were talking about you and I!"

"Were we?" Mycroft posed innocently.

"Mycroft! _Honest_!" The young boy protested, frustrated with his brother's lack of seriousness, "I'll _experiment _on your stupid dolls! I will!"

The words caught the back of Mycroft's throat and venomously, he leaned forwards, "They're not _dolls_!" He argued back, equally as childishly (much to his younger brother's _elation_) "They're _figurines_. How many times have I told you that?"

"There's one of a ballerina."

"She was doing an a_rabesque_. That's my favourite ballet move."

"You have a favourite ballet move?" Sherlock blinked - for once at a loss.

Mycroft reddened knowing his mother took him to Covent Garden far too many times. It had been so many times that it was difficult for him _not _to have a favourite ballet move from the various productions he had seen.

"And it was not an arabesque," Sherlock sighed, rolling his eyes, "I'm pretty sure it was -"

"I know my arabesques, Sherlock." Mycroft snapped.

"No...I'm sure its-"

"_No_-"

"-Let me _finish_!"

"_No_." Mycroft repeated, watching the boy go blue with rage, "_See. _We both like ballet."

"I don't _like _ballet. I've read books. There's a difference." Sherlock seemed to wave it off, face returning to normal, "Now... as I was saying. I _do _think I'm adopted."

"Just ask Mum then."

Sherlock seemed to gasp, "_What_? I can't just do that." Mycroft blinked, unsure entirely what was wrong with just asking. But then again this _was _Sherlock and he seemed to make things difficult for himself even in the simplest of means.

"Then what are you going to do if you _are?_" Mycroft exhaled, "God. Stop wasting your time and go upstairs and do all that odd stuff you do."

"I can't. What if I am?"

"What _if _you are." Mycroft had to resist throwing the rest of his breakfast on the boy's face, "Sherlock. Seriously."

"You really don't think I'm adopted, Mycroft?"

There was a moment of silence before Mycroft inhaled softly and tenderly glanced at his sibling,

"_No. _In all honesty, I think you are about as adopted as I _am _dumb."

"That's questionable."

"Shut up and go be weird."

Sherlock smiled widely, "If I was adopted. Would you still treat me like a brother?"

"Course I will." Mycroft beamed, watching the pale, grey eyed boy affectionately, "I've lived with you for eight years, haven't I? That's a hell of a long time in my opinion..."

The curly haired boy nodded, seemingly content with his experiment and glanced at the older boy vacantly,

"Mycroft."

"Yes, Sherlock."

"Can I just say - if _you _were adopted... I would laugh at your face." Sherlock noted with a small, innocent sneer, "And... I _was_ the one that poised all of your portraits askew in your room last week when you had _a primadonna _meltdown..."

Mycroft found the cornflakes suddenly tasting bland in his mouth as Sherlock _darted _out of the room, with a loud yell. The tall, athletic boy brushed his lips off cleanly and then ran out of the kitchen, face angrily growing crimson,

"I BLOODY WELL KNEW IT!" He shrieked, "You _bugger _Sherlock HOLMES! Come back _now_!"

It had taken him a whole bloody hour to get them straight again!

Sherlock seemed to be on a confession rampage,

"...I _also_ cracked the code on your journal..."

Mycroft seemed to lose consciousness for a moment, "NO WAY!" That code had been entirely random to prevent Sherlock from ever deciphering it. The boy seemed to grow bored when he was at home and in the past had used his journal as a past time.

No way...

"... Rose _Dalfour_..._how radiant she looks against the light of the glass prisms of Physics class..._"

"_I _swear... I am going to KILL _you_ Sherlock! I _swear_!"

"Death threats brother," Sherlock's little voice boomed as he scuttled into his room, "are very much _last _century."

Reaching Sherlock's bedroom, Mycroft thumped his fist on the door, breathless before erupting into hysterics. Behind the wooden surface, Sherlock had collapsed in a heap in a similar state.

In the end, Mycroft knew that Sherlock could not possibly be anything but his brother. He was as loony as their parents.

Just with his little scientific and analytical twist of things.


	4. Halloween at the Holmes

**AN: **Sorry this took long. Next installment! I thought the end was sweet. Anyway, let me know if you'd like any thing in particular played out and I'll see that I include that in future chapters. I have a lot of ideas but in case I reach a blockage (you know what muse is like these days!) Anyhow, enjoy and I realize the style change in this one. Just thought I'd experiment. Anyhow. The poem used by Sherlock is Edgar Allan Poe's "The Raven" just in case you don't pick up on the references. Thanks.

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><p><strong><span>Halloween At the Holmes<span>**

"_Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,_" The young Sherlock Holmes took a long, steady breath as he continued - Poe's poetry clearly a rhythmic enigma for the lungs, "_Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortals ever dared to dream before -_"

"Mother?" A voice suddenly chimed out, stopping the boy's story instantaneously, "_Mother? _Oh, there you are - " The door quickly swung open and a tall, young boy stepped in - sombre and concerned in expression.

Mycroft Holmes was dressed explicitly for the principle occasion that was to occur tonight. The annual revels of _Halloween. _As a child, he had always been fanatical about the intrepid tales of the supernatural - from the gory ruins of the vampirism eras to the far off legends of bloodthirsty elves. Halloween to Mycroft Holmes was like Christmas in the sense that he approached it with an identical attitude and motto - it only knocks on one's door once a year so why be a sourpuss and not embrace the spectacle?

His father - also an enthusiast for the holiday - had always provided his sons with the means to celebrate the day with whatever they wished. And so, when it came to costumes, he was the perfect figure to consult for ideas. Their father was a walking human library and he knew all sorts of stories - scriptures that enclosed all sorts of monsters that one could dress up as. Mycroft, in consideration that he was not young enough to be as besotted as he once was, had decided that his costume for this year shall go along the lines of the _undead._

It was simple and uncomplicated; the exact look he aimed for. But there was a problem for as he finished revamping his normally casual appearance - it dawned on him that he did not look _dead _enough. Bursting into the living room with this issue clawing at his head - Mycroft shared this loudly and brusquely with his mother. Evidently, he should have at least done this in confidence for including his younger brother in anything proved always to be infuriating.

"Why not just _die_?" His younger brother suggested calmly, "Perhaps then you shall understand that there is no such term as _dead enough_." A large, wicked smile was on Sherlock's face - mocking and tense. Mycroft ignored it - perfecting the art of maturity to its peak. However, the insecurity on his powdered face remained. His mother seemed to percieve (thank goodness) what it was he complained about and nodded affectionately,

"Don't worry; I shall see what we can do. Perhaps more dusting around the eyes? Or false blood?" The excitement and utter thrill in his mother's tone was making Mycroft feel a little nauseated. For once one had Violet Holmes signed to a project - she never stopped. The dead, lucid curse of a perfectionist. The woman pressed her lips before patting the book that her youngest son had on his lap softly,

"Sherlock, I shall return to listen to you read in a moment yes? I must help your brother, first," She smiled at Sherlock's blank expression. Mycroft flickered a glance at the book his brother held and managed to detain a scoff. He must have read that collection a _million _times! The oddness of his brother was one he still could not fully configure. He was like an always changing system; never anchored and eternally running.

"I am sure that _girl _you always talk about shall adore your costume, brother." Sherlock murmured, prying the book open with flexing fingers and glancing up at him with twinkling eyes. Mycroft found his face growing hot almost instantly as he heard his mother chuckle.

"There is no girl." He denied, tongue clacking.

Sherlock - always a keen detector of lies was quick on the money, "Of course there is," He said firmly, "Why else would you wear such a ridiculous amount of cologne?" Mycroft, already red in the face merely expressed a sneer as his eight year old brother began to peruse over his book. This was all false of course. Mycroft knew that his brother was far more curious about Halloween than he made out to be.

"Oh, Mycroft dear," His mother called him as she returned with the substances for his costume, "Why is it that Sherlock cannot come trick-or-treating with you this year?"

The very question made both boys snap up in response. They locked eyes and Sherlock's expression was simple to read for once. It was one of pure hatred. "I do not want to go, Mummy," The boy stated oppressively, "I _told _you." The conversation about Halloween had happened over dinner last week with their father. Always the excitable one, Siger Holmes had portrayed great pleasure in hearing about the costumes his sons were to wear over the event. Sherlock had simply rolled around the carpet, dully announcing that he was to miss the _pleasantries _this year.

"I know you told me, love," Her tone was almost sighing; Mycroft knew she was using her _disappointment _act. An act that he very rarely could resist. "But I just feel like you should do it. All the other boys are doing it -"

"Good for them." Sherlock drawled. Even this prompted a smile out of his oldest brother.

Deciding to press the matter even further, Mycroft smoothed out the front of his borrowed hospital gown (he had planned to appear like a deceased, rotting body from the morgue), "Plus, mother. Sherlock _embarasses_ me. He _always _dresses up as something inappropriate at Halloween." A gasp seemed to resonate from the small boy as he sharpened up to defend his own choices of costume. Yes, they were unconventional but they certainly were _not _inappropriate.

"You are meant to dress up as something frightening - thus, I dressed up as a _Raven _for I had found the poem discomfiting." Sherlock defended with a hiss as he referred to last year's get-up. Mycroft rolled his eyes knowing he did not even wear _wings._ The boy had stomped off, seething from the fact that everyone had asked him what he was dressed up as - apparently to his eyes, it had been painfully evident.

"Is it so difficult to pick something simple, Sherlock?" Mycroft asked, knowing it was slowly riling the boy up. The joy he recieved from Sherlock's outbursts was unhealthy; it was much too satisfying seeing the normally blank faced boy shed off his facade like dead skin.

"By simple, do you mean _stupid_? All the costumes are stupid." The boy said with a harsh clash of the teeth. Their mother intervened their exchange with a massive, obdurate sigh.

"Then dress up as something stupid then!" Mycroft argued back with an eyeroll.

"Darling," She told Sherlock as she adjusted Mycroft's shirt, "May you at least try? I'm sure you'll enjoy it."

"No, mother. He shall embarass me." Mycroft whined. He knew he was not doing this because he wished to be occupied into the crowd - he did this for social position. Thinking like the politician he aspired to be, he knew how to progress up the rankings. It was something he must practice in his school years if he was to perfect it in Parliament. Today was a chance for him to continue to gratify the top position of the group he ordered - if Sherlock was there, the respect could be lost knowing how his brother would behave.

"Don't be silly, Mycroft." His mother said dismissively, turning towards her youngest with a patronizing tug of the lips, "Sherlock, please? _For Mummy_?"

Ugh. That line. Mycroft knew how nauseating it sounded whenever she uttered it. The saddest thing was that it always worked and Sherlock, like himself, was unable to form a barricade against its irrepressible charm.

"Mother," The young boy grumbled, scratching his curly hair aggressively, "I do believe that Halloween is a holiday I best avoid."

"Among others." Mycroft added with a smile and a wink knowing how Christmas was something Sherlock rarely enjoyed. Including all holidays really - even his own birthday.

That very jest seemed to ignite a nerve in the eight year old as Sherlock stood up, suddenly gallant and willing.

"_Fine_, I shall participate. And I shall dress up as the most _stupid _thing I can think of." His eyes then flickered desolately over his older brother - the glance acting more like a visual slap of the face, "Brother, is that meant to be scary?"

A little self-consciously, Mycroft attempted his best to regain composure by a tip of the chin.

"It might not be to you, but a dead body in the morgue is considered frightful." He said simply. Sherlock inspected the attire with a musing expression and shrugged,

"How can it be?" The eight year old posed as he stepped out of the door, "It is all going to happen to us in the end."

There was an incurable silence as Sherlock left. It was only filled by his mother's humming as she finished perfecting the drying blood finish on his face. "Darling, take care of your little brother," She murmured as she caressed his nose with her brush, "His philosophy may be disjointed but he _will _always require your watching eye..."

"I know," Mycroft replied, "I just wished he made life easier by not being insufferable."

* * *

><p>The exclamations of '<em>good god that is realistic!' <em>from the crowd had assured Mycroft that his costume had attained its full potential. Trick-or-Treating as a fully pledged adolescent suddenly seemed to be brightening its prospect again. People had fawned over him - poked and prodded - they were even more impressed by his use of the real hospital gown he had borrowed from Aunt Agatha. In the end, he was certain he had trumped all that he required to retain his place as Mycroft Holmes - the one who was seemingly _perfect _at all the things he did.

Suddenly, his candidacy for Head Boy in the coming months just seemed to be an ensured victory. Although he never doubted it - somehow, now he was even more certain. And as for his Head _Girl_, well she was looking magnificent as a Corpse's Bride. Never being one for romantic affairs, Mycroft knew how easily he would forget about her if she had not looked good for his path to becoming a Head Boy. But she did look good - and the overindulgence on cologne seemed to have worked in his favour as she had hardly eyes for any other -

"Mycroft."

Instinctively, he had jumped. Behind in the crowd, the voice in the darkness was of course his younger brother's. It seemed that being consumed in the merriment of the occasion, he had forgotten to take Sherlock with him. _Forgotten_, of course in the loosest term. It showed that even his subconscious wanted to leave the boy behind. Mycroft turned and had to bite his lip from screeching -

"_Sherlock_!" His screech turned into a hateful, vicious _hiss_, "What in _heavens _are you doing in my _best _clothes?"

His brother was dressed up in his three piece suit. It had been pressed, dried and ironed for his next big occasion (hopefully for his meeting with the Headmaster when he is given the badge for Head Boy). It was much too large for Sherlock anyway and all this - _humidity_! It was going to ruin the fabric. Mycroft wanted nothing more but to rip it off him but even the anger could not match the affection he had for his clothing.

"I did what you told me to!" His brother scowled, hand flailing. Mycroft noted that he had rolled the sleeves up about five times to be able to see his hand at the end. The idea of how much crease had evolved on the shirt had almost prompted him to faint.

"I did _not _tell you to do this!" Mycroft scowled back, knowing some of his layered powder was probably eroding off from the sweat he was perspiring from resentment.

"Yes you did." Sherlock told him, a familiar twinkle gleaming in his eyes as the wicked smirk returned. He crossed his arms (prompting a squeal from Mycroft as he once more heard the squeeze of a crease) and drawled, "_You _told me to dress up as the most _stupid _thing I knew..."

Relishing every moment, the eight year old huffed out,

"So, I dressed up as you."

The next few moments was silence. After the silence, one breath cracked out in the blackness. One could not express the next few minutes in any other words but one familiar one. One word that could signify every breath exhaled, every word conveyed - every glare shot - Just one word:

_Vulgar._

* * *

><p>"Home, early love?"<p>

His mother was curled up with a glass of wine on the couch. Sherlock came over to her, dressed in his pyjamas as he yawned calmly. He had opted to sit on the rug but he was instantly pulled by the woman into an embrace. A little squeamish, the eight year old eventually relaxed and sworn he could have fallen into a deep slumber in his mother's arms if she had not spoken.

"How was it? Is your brother home too?"

"It was fine." Sherlock answered in his usual, vacant manner, "Mycroft did not like my costume much."

"Oh, well what was it?" His mother asked quickly, arching a brow. Sherlock shrugged and merely proclaimed his innocence by pressing his curls on his mother's hand for her to caress. He knew the art of how to distract his mother and she fell for it like she did every time. Humming as she held him, Sherlock observed that she must have seen him out of the door when he snuck out with Mycroft's costume on. She was merely acting up for him. _Because of love, I suppose_, his mind concluded, _how dull._

"I expect he won't be home for a while." The young boy nodded. His mother responded with a breath. She probably thought Mycroft shall restrain from returning home because he was having too much fun with his peers. Sherlock begged to differ; Mycroft was not going to return home for he was afraid that he might suffocate his own brother in his sleep. The anger in his older brother's eyes had been somewhat infested with something complex; as if the whole trick-or-treat business was _serious._

He would deduce it tomorrow. "Darling," His mother crooned, "I am sorry I forced you into Halloween. I just thought you would like it." The tenderness in his mother's tone was one he found hard to neglect. The boy in him still longed for that warmth and with a sentimental gesture, he glanced up at his mother and genuinely smiled,

"I forgive you mother. Plus, I did like it this year."

"You did?" His mother uttered, surprised. _She lies - one can tell from the embroidered expression. But I appreciate the gesture._

Nodding and thawed by the comforting flicker of the living room fireplace, Sherlock claimed the small poetry book from the bottom of the sofa. He had left it there for he knew how simple it was to lose things with a mind like his. Opening the book, he returned to his page.

"Sorry, darling. We never got around to reading the rest of it," His mother quickly brushed up, stroking the top of his head, "Start again, will you dear? I would love to hear it, again."

Never one to disappoint, Sherlock took a breath and began, _"Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary..."_

The curly haired boy sleepily read to the very end of the poem. On the last syllable, the book slipped from his fingertips and after a small scrunch of the nose fell into a long, warm sleep in his mother's arms.

Mycroft had returned home and neither had noticed him slip into the living room as they dozed. He had glanced at his brother with the deepest glare of disdain but that faded eventually as he gazed at the peace on their features. Rubbing his face off ever-so-slightly, he found a mature smile lifting onto his lips as he remembered all the bad words he had called Sherlock after discovering what he had done.

But in the end, it was his brother that had secured his victory for the rest of his peers had been surprised at his temperament. How sharp and frightening he sounded! It seemed that _fear _was a far better weapon to use than charm and now, he was more than certain that he shall be the Head of the school. Everyone was now entirely bewitched by him - certain that a man of his mood and firmness was born to lead!

Now, he almost wished he could have taken Sherlock with him. For he knew the boy _secretly _would have loved to observe and make deductions about the figures that lived at their neighbourhood. Plus, Sherlock had always loved candy. He would say that it was all for experimentation when his father would return home with boxes of exotic sweets - but Mycroft did deductions of his own. And Sherlock certainly did not use _all _of them for science. For a boy who could detect lying like second nature - Mycroft had expected him to be better at the art himself.

Crouching down, Mycroft slipped a small piece of chocolate fudge into Sherlock's open palm (his favourite) and with the most _certainty _of cares, pressed a soft, loving kiss on his younger brother's forehead. The small boy moved a little - as if dreaming - but stilled.

"Happy Halloween, Sherlock." He whispered with a smile as he retired to his own bedroom upstairs.


End file.
